


I won't ask you why

by holy fuck (quodpersortem)



Category: The Exorcist (TV)
Genre: Gen or Pre-Slash, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-18
Updated: 2017-12-18
Packaged: 2019-02-16 17:26:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13058688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quodpersortem/pseuds/holy%20fuck
Summary: Marcus takes care of Tomas the only way Tomas allows him to. It doesn't add up to much.





	I won't ask you why

**Author's Note:**

> For [this prompt](https://theexorcistfans.dreamwidth.org/3058.html#comments) over @ Dreamwidth 
> 
> Title comes from the About Today lyrics by the National

“Hey," Marcus prods at Tomas' side. "Wake up, Tomas." Tomas snores a little, and when Marcus gently chides, “Tom _aaas_?” he mashes his face against the car door in a way that twists his features. It's hilariously unattractive, and Marcus would've taken a picture if he hadn't just wanted to get out of this goddamn car.

They've been on the road for six weeks. Marcus knows that traveling with someone is taking its toll on him. He also knows that the sacrifices Tomas has made so far are much, much greater than his own.

The circles under Tomas' eyes are deepening, dark crevices that seem to absorb the fading light in his eyes more every day. His skin is growing grey, he hasn't shaved in a couple of days and Marcus has suspected it for a while but he can now see that he has been losing weight.

Tomas grumbles, so Marcus rolls his eyes and gets out of the car. When he opens the passenger door, he blinks blearily and mumbles " _¿qué?_ " before sitting up and frowning at Marcus.

"Come on, then, sleepyhead," Marcus smirks.

"I am _not_ —"  Tomas starts to grumble in protest, but he takes Marcus' hand to help him get out of the car. "I'm strong, Marcus," he promises. "I can do this."

"I know you can," Marcus laughs as he locks the car and hooks his arm under Tomas', ignoring his protests. "Here we go."

-

Tomas takes a shower while Marcus heads out to buy dinner.

They saved the boy after nearly two weeks of constant work and Bennett hasn’t been in contact with them yet, so he holds out hope for a couple of free days; Marcus couldn’t say _no_ to a new case and he knows that Tomas _wouldn’t_.

Tomas is sat at the table. He’s shirtless and leaning his head in his hands, although he turns to look at Marcus when he enters.

“I have a salad for you,” he tells Tomas, putting the bag on the table. “And fried chicken. Paracetamol and Neosporin too.”

Tomas nods and Marcus walks around him to check his back. There’s a nasty gash running across one of his shoulder blades, surrounded by rug burn. The demon inside the boy pushed off Tomas with enough force to shove him across the floor to the other side of the room.

“This looks like it still hurts,” he mutters, gently tracing his fingers along the edge of the wound. Tomas flinches and Marcus sighs. 

“It’s nothing,” Tomas says through gritted teeth. His shirtlessness—undoubtedly because he was waiting for Marcus to inspect the wound—tells Marcus otherwise.

Marcus doesn’t say anything as he grabs the ointment from the bag and places the salads he got—Tuna and Caesar—in front of Tomas so he can pick. He doesn’t, so Marcus makes a mental note to force him to eat after he’s finished cleaning Tomas’ wound.

He carefully applies the Neosporin to the damaged skin. Marcus can see Tomas clench his jaw shut throughout, the muscles in his back tensing under Marcus’ touch no matter how gentle he is.

It pains Marcus to know that although it is Tomas’ choice, this is _his_ fault.

He ignores the ball of guilt that sits and rots inside his stomach. Instead he strokes his free hand across the tense muscles of Tomas’ neck, distracting him. It is nothing but a desperate attempt to soothe the pain, although he’s well aware that his plan is hardly infallible.

He often wonders how he can fix something—any situation, but this rubbish in particular—when he himself is broken, an out of place and discord tune in a merry song that keeps distracting the listener, like he keeps pulling Tomas back to evil, but tonight Tomas leans into his touch and Marcus can feel his muscles relax, just a little.

When he’s done treating Tomas’ wound he puts that hand on his shoulder too, digging his fingers into the knots and working them over. Tomas hasn’t asked for it—he can’t, nor can Marcus ask for permission. Not when it is such an intimate act, more so than anything he has done with anybody else, smoothing his hands over Tomas’ soft skin. It’s still mostly unmarred, unblemished, a pale Latino olive that neatly contrasts his own British rosiness.

 Tomas unfolds and unfurls under his body, the tension seeping from his body like Marcus’ hands are making him bleed stress. It only makes Marcus’ heart ache more.

He doesn’t stop until his fingers feel numb and his stomach grumbles. Then he washes his hands, and when he gets back, Tomas is eating the tuna salad. He still looks despondent and desperately tired, but there’s a glimmer of light in his eyes that Marcus has missed—

And at night, he doesn’t wake up Marcus with screams of terror.

Tomorrow will be better.


End file.
